The Theory of Distance
by B. D. Conan
Summary: Exclusive in their selection of students, John Watson was asked to join them. Only to be roomed with the school's most avoided resident, Sherlock Holmes. As he seems to settle, things become more complex elsewhere leading to John being top suspect in a campus crime. Sherlock knows he's innocent but no one else. Now he's left to rescue his only companion.
1. Chapter 1

"This roommate of your's, messy lad, isn't 'e?" Delia inquired, shuffling into the door then rounding the small couch into the walk way that separated the two bunks, the kind that was bedded at the top with a ladder that brought you down into a desk area underneath. Identical in structure, entirely different in maintenance.

John's was cleaned even for a standard new comer: comforter tucked tight, desk cleared ready and at his use. And all of three maybe five steps his counterpart, the sheets and blankets nearly balled in the corner of the bed. The ladder slightly caving on it's steps, desk showing signs of being... burnt? While papers crumpled and not scattered the floor nearly as a border for this boy's space.

"I suppose so." He shrugged small shoulders, eyes rounding about the room. "Can't pick and choose the roommate."

"Do you know who he is?" His mother seemed at no loss while Harry and his father were at loss of words. He pretended that was why they didn't speak, anyway.

"No but I will soon enough." Both curious and antsy, his voice wavered while in thought. Not that it'd gone noticed. He changed topics. "I guess... now good byes are an order."

There were nods and a sigh of relief he ignored.

"Don't forget to call, alright?" She was smiling through the cracks in her quieting voice. Smiling as if tears didn't threaten to dissolve the very facade she'd been wearing this past week. He wanted to feel what she felt but that was just outside of his grasp, the intensity, at least, of missing someone already. Wordlessly giving into a hug. "Yes, mum, every other day." He mumbled; try to, anyway.

"Don't be boring," Harry added flatly, tugging ringlets of auburn into a tight pony tail. That was about the only thing about her, now, that fell short of boyish. With her tattered jersey that hung loose above khaki men's shorts. "Horrid habit of your's."

John didn't agree. Or rather didn't want to agree. He didn't cause grief or disturbance, played within the lines drawn out for him, made no waves, that shouldn't make him boring... But as he thought of not a story he could share that was exciting, he gave a side glance to Harry before he'd come to his father.

Not a word but a hand shake before the man turned on a hard heel... And that was that. They left.

So suddenly he was left to his own devices, to making something of a home in half of a room far from his true home, far from many things, that he'd oddly felt abandoned. Though, he supposed for second, private academies had such an affect on many.

This thought was quickly derailed and came to a crashing hault as just beyond the closed door, there was an argument. One so trying to be discreet, the other out right not giving a damn.

"What do you mean 'roommate'?"

"I mean, there is another boy who is due anytime so for arrival and will be sharing this room."

"Why my room? Can't he bunk with Lestrade for God's sake?"

At least he's a pleasant fellow, John's thoughts snapped sarcastically. Not even in the door and this other boy, who he's assuming is meant to be living here, had already set the tone for introduction.

"Mr. Holmes, this is not up for discussion. If this is such a problem I will gladly call your brother."

This was met with a bout of deep laughter before rolling into a string of audible words. "You can call him, I highly doubt he'll be available but no really, give it your best go."

"Or you can be escorted off campus and relieved of admission here." Deathly quiet.

The speed in which John had been unpacking his newly acquired uniforms into the drawers next to his desk and slowed drastically waiting for a response. It didn't come, only the door clicked and swung open.

"Oh," The voice of the older of the two said, disappointed maybe even embarrassed. "He's already here." Again that fragile silence sat, waiting to be broken. "John Watson is it?" A nod. "I'm the admissions adviser. We were suppose to meet in the office but I'm glad you found your way," It was almost as if he was avoiding the obvious but he couldn't. Not with them analyzing each other. "This is your roommate," Holmes gave to a heavy sigh at the mere word. "Sherlock Holmes. Holmes, Watson."

Not five minutes and I can tell you are the worst cock I'll ever meet. John smiled falsely showing clearly on his features, "not a good actor" might as well be written onto his forehead. And in the mind of Holmes that wasn't the only thing .

"Nice to meet you, Sherlock."

"Hardly."

* * *

><p><em>Alright, chapter one.<em>

_It's been quite sometime since I wrote anything like this, sorry I'm a tad rusty. Still, feel free to comment! I'm all about what you all have to say._

_ - B.D_


	2. Chapter 2

_Something we can agree on._ John thought, an involuntary curt nod.

"I have to apologize for leaving like this," By which the adviser meant leaving when it was completely awkward. Especially when Sherlock, of all people, was there. "But I do have other students to have get set before classes begin tomorrow. Sherlock." The name leaving in a stern sound that was displeasing to the ear. The only thing the warning was met with was an eye roll.

The door closed behind the man and Sherlock took two maybe three long strides before ducking under his bunk, not flinching as he fell back to his chair. Legs swinging up and propping them self comfortably on their heels against the wood. Eyes slipping shut and head leaned back against the chair's curved cushioned back. Holmes sat still with nothing to say. The room had nothing to say either. John also.

John had the feeling that these spells of silence would be an often occurrence. Eyes unable to detach from the posed body. _This boy is unbelievable.  
><em>"What?" Holmes asked, a twinge of irritability blatant in his tone as to discourage any thought of attempting something of a "friendship". John only shrugged, only saying nothing in reply and proceeding forward. He went on about unpacking before the argument. Bending on his knees to reach the last drawer on his side, it rolls heavily, cracking only to be slammed close by another hand. He glanced up to the person whom the hand belonged to with furrowed brows. Sherlock holding a finger on pause before the blond might say anything... annoying or idiotically obvious.

"I _highly_ suggest you. Not. Open. It."

"And why not?"

Sherlock gave to a slight raise in brows, a small purse in lips, blue gaze unmoved in any capacity of the word. Rather than explain himself, thin digits withdraw, and wheels his chair back into the small space of his desk. "Go on then." He drawled, returning to his prior perch. Gone from the room, the planet more over, into some other corner of his mind to be alone despite the presence of another body.

And John, foolishly and curiously, pulled at the dresser handle. Catching a glimpse of what lied in the highly suggested no zone, the blond himself slammed it shut. Contemplating taping it shut forever or throwing the entire thing away, in either option, he'd learn to live without an extra drawer. Not completely new to that of animals carcass -having hunted with his father a time or two-, he held his breath avoiding the aroma of death. Holmes mouth, twitch in their crooks; mildly amused.

"I'm going to ask why you have a dead bird in there. I can only _pray_ that you don't say something crazy." At his nerves end, John practiced as much patients that was still in his grasp.

"If you _must_ know," _Seriously...? If I **must** know? Of course I "must", it's my bloody drawer to begin with. Who does he think he is?_ "I'm in the middle of an experiment."

"An... experiment? With a dead bird? In our dresser?"

"Don't be a baby. It's not as though it were just lying there dead touching anything."

"... On an apparently stolen lunch plate, doesn't really help much."

If Sherlock had to give any credit, and he wouldn't, it'd be to John's ability to restrain his anger. Hmm. "Nonetheless, don't touch it."

It occurs to John to _ask_ what the experiment pertained to but found himself believing that something are better off unknown. He distributes the last of his clothes in the upper drawers, shoving them in so that they all fit at least. The bed already made for him, he dropped gracelessly into his chair -he wondered then how one _could_ fall gracefully-. Spinning his chair back the forth, sometimes making a complete circle. "So, classes start t-"

"How do you feel about the violin?" John blinked, not expecting be interrupted, or more uneasily, asked about his personal preferences.  
>"I... can't say I really mind it. Depending on how good the-"<br>"Bees?"  
>"As long as they're kept contain-"<br>"I have tendencies to be quiet for long periods of time, obviously I also tend to experiment. I go days with sleeping or eating for that matter. Is any of this problematic?"  
>"Why?" John finally got out.<br>"If we're to be roommates for this dreadfully long year, we should know the worst of each other, no?"  
>John paused, nodding sightly. If they had to endure each other this long, they might as well. Proceeding to share a few things that other's might find annoying; like the sound of his left foot dragging slightly from an injury in a game of football when he was a bit younger.<p>

"You realize that's completely in your head, right?"  
>"What is?"<br>"Your dragging leg. It might have started as a real injury from a football to your knee but it's long healed, When you don't think about it, you walk perfectly normal."  
>The blond looked to him with a slight part in his mouth and an awe in his eye. "How did you know that?"<br>Sherlock couldn't help himself; the sight of another's amazement at his skills. "Simple. The scares on the back of your knee, not one from surgery but it is from a cut. A specific kind that would make those kinds of marks, cleats. The scares are old and fading, from your childhood obviously enough. What would a child be doing with cleats if not football?"  
>"Rugby, to name one."<br>"Doubtful from the angle."  
>"Wow..." John found himself saying. It seemed anything wrong that had happened before his moment escaped his attention. And it seemed Sherlock was too busy basking in the awe to be so complete shut off.<br>"Observation and deduction, Watson." Is all he adds before swiftly taking to his feet, almost wanting to stay -even if only to bask in his own glory for a while longer, tell John what else he knows- but with a new round up of first years coming in, he'd much to do before tomorrow and so he left.

Allowing John to himself once again though it didn't feel as coldly done this time...


End file.
